


The Adventure Of The Beryl Coronet (1886)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [40]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Destiel - Freeform, Embarrassed Dean, F/M, Framing Story, Jewelry, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Theft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-21 07:38:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10680738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: The case in which Sherlock showed that there was more than one way to steal an expensive jewellery item.





	The Adventure Of The Beryl Coronet (1886)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ygern](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ygern/gifts).



> One of an incredible four cases involving a 'second stain' element, but not the famous one that, by a strange coincidence, was the next case after this.

“I see that Mr. Sherlock Holmes is back in town.”

I looked up in surprise. Miss Gladys Peabody was our secretary at the surgery, chillingly efficient at both her job and keeping patients in order, but she rarely spoke unless spoken to.

“Is he in the paper already?” I asked. She looked at me knowingly.

“You were smiling at that awful Mrs. Grayson”, she said. “Either Mr. Holmes is back in town, or you have 'borrowed' the key to the medicine store and boosted yourself up on the 'happy pills'. The key is still in my drawer, so obviously he is back.”

“Good detective work, Miss Peabody”, I smiled. She was not the only one to have spotted my improved mood that morning, though none of the other people had guessed why. “Can you send Mr. Fisherton in, please?”

“Of course, sir.”

I looked at her suspiciously. So what if Sherlock's return had improved my general demeanour? It made for a happier doctor, at least. I returned to my room.

+~+~+

“You have just missed Bacchus”, Sherlock said when I returned to our rooms later that day. I clutched my hand to my chest in mock agony.

“Oh noes!” I said melodramatically. “However will I cope with such an earth-shattering, apocalyptic disappointment? Woe, woe, and thrice woe!”

He shook his head at my very obviously fake histrionics, but I could see the smile in his eyes.

“He brought me a paper”, he explained. “Since Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton is due to fall – as in be pushed - off Westminster Bridge tomorrow evening, he thought it advisable that I be seen separately from him, in case someone managed to link the two of us. Though I doubt that even the German spy network can match your observational skills, doctor.”

I blushed at the praise.

“How is he going to manage that?” I asked. 

“I am attending a small party at my father's house with some notable guests, and at the same time, an agent disguised as Mr. Milverton will approach a journalist and promise to meet him again on Saturday to discuss 'a matter of great import'. Sadly, of course, that is an appointment that he is destined not to make. A government agent will then report to a passing police officer that he heard a splash in the Thames, and they will find Mr. Milverton's wallet by the side of the river.”

“And the dead body of our soon-to-be-departed 'friend'?” I inquired.

“The newspapers will be told that a cousin subsequently identified the body, and is removing it to his native Ireland”, Sherlock said. “There are some Milvertons in Queen's County, though the cousin will hale from Dublin. Poor Charles will even get his own headstone, paid for by Her Britannic Majesty's Government!”

“A veritable send-off!” I smiled. “Provided that you stay here, I shall not miss him. That beard was atrocious!”

“And the padding was very uncomfortable”, he agreed. “Unlike some people, I found all that extra weight at the front quite unbalancing.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. That innocent look did not deceive me for one minute! I considered a pout, but I was so happy to have him back that I desisted.

+~+~+

I nearly had a fit the following day when I returned from a walk to find two Sherlocks in our rooms, before I remembered what my friend had said would be happening that evening. Our actor friend left for his appointment, and Sherlock allowed me to ceremonially burn a copy of the fake beard in the fireplace. And that was the last the world would ever see of Mr. Charles Augustus Milverton.

“He even had on that long coat that looked like yours”, I said, before a thought struck me. I looked across at the hat-stand, which was conspicuously lacking a certain garment. “Your coat?”

He looked surprised at my reaction.

“A perfect copy, down to the slight tear along the back flap”, he said. “The original came back from the laundry today, and I have not yet put it on the stand.”

“Oh”, I said, a little ashamed at my over-reaction. He looked at me curiously.

“You would miss the coat?” he asked, curiously.

I shrugged.

“It is all part of what makes you you”, I said blithely. “The violin, the gun, the pipe, that ridiculous hat....”

“That reminds me”, he cut in. “I cannot find my woollen hat anywhere. Did you lose it during my absence?”

I was sure that, if there was life on the Moon, they could see how red I went at that moment. He looked at me curiously.

“It was one of the few things that I had of yours”, I said guiltily. “I kept it in my room, and sometimes....”

I stopped, my blush somehow deepening. It could probably now be seen from Mars!

“Sometimes?” he prompted.

“Isleptwithit!” I blurted out, wishing that I could sink into the room below.

“Oh”, he said.

Fortunately he did not press the matter, and I discovered an urgent letter I had to go out and post. Very urgent. So urgent that I almost fell over the hat-stand on my way out.

+~+~+

“I have another case.”

It was a month later, and I had settled into having Sherlock back in my life almost as if he had not been absent these past three years. My heart leapt at those words, and I looked eagerly across the breakfast table. I had had a full weekend off but had not wanted to leave 221B, content to just laze around the house. Sherlock teased me that I would now tolerate even his violin-playing, and duly struck up, but I did not mind, much to his surprise. I was just glad to have him back. Indeed, if I had thought about it, I suppose my reluctance to leave the house was partly due to a fear that he might suddenly disappear on me again.

“Who is it?” I asked. 

“Lady Moreton-Coles wishes to consult me about a possible theft”, he said. I looked at him in confusion.

“How can one have a 'possible theft'?” I asked dubiously. “Has the would-be thief sent her a letter of intent to steal something from her?”

He chuckled at that.

“She believes that someone – I would presume a specific someone - will attempt to steal her beryl coronet”, he explained. “It is all a little delicate.”

I sighed.

“You do not wish for me to be here”, I said, trying to be understanding.

He looked at me in shock.

“Watson!”

I started. He seemed shocked by his own vehemence, judging from the faint blush that appeared. There was an awkward silence between us.

“You know me well enough that, in the unlikely event a case cannot involve you, I would say so directly”, he said eventually, and he sounded almost hurt. “I merely wished to ascertain if you could leave work early one day this week, so that you could be here when she calls.”

I felt warmed by his inclusion of me in the matter.

“Wednesdays are usually quiet just now”, I said. “If I took some extra patients on the other days, I am sure that they would let me off an hour or two earlier.”

“Then if you can confirm that with them this morning”, he said, “send me a telegram, and I shall then inform Lady Moreton-Coles that she can come here on Wednesday at four o'clock.”

+~+~+

I must admit, I rather liked Lady Antonia Moreton-Coles, who I had read about on the very rare occasion that I happened to glance briefly at the social pages (and some blue-eyed personage in the vicinity had better not be sniggering at that!). She was first cousin to the Duchess of Stratford-on-Avon, but rich in her own right, her father Lord Snitterfield having speculated successfully in an assortment of industries. She was known for championing decent conditions for the workers in her husband's factories and was a financial supporter of, though not an active campaigner for, women's suffrage.

She was also clearly ill-at-ease. Sherlock sat her down in the fireside chair and took his own seat opposite her, not asking any direct questions. I took the seat at the table, my notebook at the ready. Clearly his tactics worked, for she soon opened up to him. 

“I hardly like to say what I am about to”, she said, looking nervously anywhere but at the detective.

“My lady”, Sherlock said calmly, “be assured that everything you say in this room is in complete confidence. That is guaranteed.”

That last word seemed to calm our guest somewhat, and she took a deep breath before beginning.

“I am sure that you know my familial circumstances, Mr. Holmes”, she began. “I am, unusually for this day and age, rich in my own right. When I decided to marry Denzil, my father fiercely opposed the match – he believed that only a titled noble was good enough for his only child – and he only gave in after my future husband agreed to sign a legal document waiving all his rights to my wealth.”

“Such a document might not stand up in court”, Sherlock observed. 

“With the new law on the property of married women, my father's lawyers assured him that it would”, she said firmly. “But that is merely background information, though possibly relevant to what has happened in the last few months.”

“Please go on”, Sherlock said politely. 

She took another deep breath.

“Four months ago, Killigrew, my husband's valet, retired. He was a good man, old-school and very reliable, sometimes inclined to water the whisky, but with servants nowadays one has to take what one can get. Unfortunately his replacement, a man called Macbeth, worries me.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked.

“I was not overly enamoured of him at the interviews, but the other applicants were all quite intolerable”, she said. “But ever since his arrival, Denzil had started getting into what I would call 'bad ways. He is increasingly evasive over money, and I think that he has started taking out loans.”

“He cannot do that forever”, I observed. She nodded.

“However”, she said, “two weeks ago he came to me and said he wanted to actually.... insure my beryl coronet.”

We both looked puzzled. She hastened to explain.

“I have always distrusted insurance agents”, she said, shuddering as she said the word. “A good safe or strong-box is better than paying someone for nothing, and one can place money aside in a bank and still have access to it. But Denzil decided that he wanted to insure it for five thousand pounds.”

Sherlock, of course, was ahead of me.

“You are fearful that your husband may attempt to engineer a fake theft of the coronet, and then claim the insurance”, he said. 

“Yes”, she admitted. “He made the first payment himself, and promised to transfer it over to my name, but he keeps delaying it. I fear that he may have the coronet stolen in the near future, claim the money, and then leave me. I do not think that he is seeing anyone else, but my female intuition tells me that something bad may be about to happen.”

Sherlock looked thoughtfully at her.

“It would be very difficult to stop such a theft happening”, he said. “As with most crimes, the advantage lies with the perpetrator, who can choose the time and place of their strike. Unless, of course, you were to precipitate it.”

She stared at him in shock.

“I beg your pardon?” 

“What I meant”, he said, “was that you could engineer a situation whereby he had an opportunity to take the coronet, and then have someone ready on hand to catch him or his agent 'in the act'.”

She sighed unhappily

“I really hope that I might be proven wrong about him”, she said, “but perhaps such a thing could also show his innocence, if he does not make an attempt. I will do as you advise, Mr. Holmes.”

“Good”, he smiled. “I will think about this some more, then visit you at Granville House tomorrow.”

“But surely that will alert my husband!”

Holmes nodded.

“Precisely”, he said. “It will tell him that if he is going to act, it must be soon. And when he learns that I am currently too busy, but will be free in a weeks' time say, then he will have to act sooner rather than later. Either way, you will _know_ , Lady Moreton-Coles, and that knowledge will bring you peace of mind.”

+~+~+

The next day, Sherlock went to Granville House that morning to tell Lady Moreton-Coles (coincidentally in the presence of her most gossip-prone maid) that he could not accept her case just now as he had a pressing government matter to attend to, but would call again as soon as he could, which would he suspected be soon after her return from her forthcoming trip to Scotland. She had in turn invited him to dinner that same evening. 

“Lady Moreton-Coles has told her husband that she does not want to risk taking the coronet on a train, and will entrust it to the bank whilst she is gone”, Sherlock told me when I had got home. “As I am due to meet with her upon her return, the attempted theft must be made very soon, most likely prior to her departure. Quite possibly tonight.”

“Had you not better get ready?” I asked. Having regular hours at the surgery meant that I usually arrived to our rooms at the same time every evening, but occasionally, as tonight, I was sometimes a little late.

“I was waiting for you”, he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Me?” I exclaimed.

He looked as surprised as I felt.

“Of course”, he said, as if it were obvious. “I cannot undertake a case without my friend by my side.”

I knew that I was blushing, but I felt so warmed at that that I simply did not care. Smiling, I went to get changed.

+~+~+

Granville House was a truly abominable modern building, which for some inexcusable reason the Moreton-Coleses had had painted pink. Not pastel, but bright rose pink. And not even a tree or eight to tone down the abhorrence. It was truly abominable!

“Cannot I just stay outside with a paint-pot?” I muttered as we left our cab. “Or some dark glasses. There ought to be a local by-law against such horrors being allowed in London.”

Sherlock chuckled.

“It is a little.... forward”, he admitted. “I would like to talk with Lord Moreton-Coles before his wife makes her grand entrance.”

“Of course”, I said, following him inside. 

We were duly announced, and Sherlock led me immediately across to where Denzil Moreton-Coles was standing. He was a pasty-faced young man, blond and worried-looking, and (I judged) some ten or so years younger than his wife. I was a little surprised that standing behind him was presumably the valet in question, Macbeth – valets did not accompany their masters to dinners, surely? He was younger than I had expected, about the same age as his master although in far better condition, his black hair slicked back and shining in the gaslight.

I had the impression that he was looking down on us, which was unfair as my friend looked far less bedraggled than usual. When Sherlock mentioned who we were however, I noted an immediate flicker of something in the valet's dark eyes. Alarm? Fear? Whatever it was, Lord Moreton-Coles muttered something to him, and he swiftly left us. 

“He seems quite young for his post”, Sherlock observed. Lord Moreton-Coles nodded.

“Yes”, he said. “I interviewed six people when my last valet left, and the other five were all older than him, but my wife disliked all of the others.”

Not as much as she dislikes this one now, I thought, but said nothing.

“She will be making her grand entrance shortly”, Lord Moreton-Coles said, a little acidly, I thought. “She loves sweeping down the long staircase to descend unto the rabble below.”

“I wish that I had been able to help her over her concerns about that coronet of hers”, Sherlock said ruefully, “but lately I have been extremely busy. And some of my clients.... well, one cannot keep government or royalty waiting, as I am sure you understand. But I have promised her that, upon her return from Scotland, I shall be able to give her my most immediate attention.”

Lord Moreton-Coles nodded again.

“She has a bee in her bonnet about me insuring the damn thing”, he said. “I had a jeweller in Bond Street make her a perfect copy of it, but she refuses to wear it. She says that it does not feel like the real thing.”

“The female of the species can be strange in her ways”, Sherlock agreed, "especially when it comes to expensive items of jewellery. Ah, I can see that your wife is approaching the stairs. We shall allow you to go and meet her.”

+~+~+

Dinner was almost over when I noticed Sherlock, sat to my left, talking to his neighbour, Lady Moreton-Coles.

“You seem a little uncomfortable, my lady”, he observed. She sighed.

“I yielded to Denzil's persuasion, and am wearing the fake coronet”, she said ruefully. “I know it looks exactly the same as the real one, but it just _feels_ wrong! I think that I shall have to go and change it.”

He nodded understandingly, and the gentleman all stood as she left the table. She had barely gone before the butler announced that coffee was being served in the drawing-room. We all filed out, and I noticed that Sherlock looked unusually pensive. I was about to ask him why when there was the unmistakable sound of a gunshot from upstairs, swiftly followed by a second.

“Antonia!” Lord Moreton-Coles yelled, and led the charge. I was about to follow when Sherlock laid a restraining hand on me, and turning, I saw him shake his head slightly.

I had the oddest feeling that, somehow, he had been expecting this.

+~+~+

Granville House lay on the edge of the area served by Sergeant Henriksen's station, and fortunately, he was on duty that evening. Sherlock spent some time talking with him outside, then the two joined myself and the Moreton-Coleses in the lounge. The only other person there was Clara, Lady Antonia's maid. Sergeant Henriksen pulled out a notepad.

“I understand how terrible this must be for you, my lady”, he said gravely, “but it is important that we get a full understanding of the events that transpired this evening whilst memories are still fresh.”

She nodded, and leant back on the couch. I noted that she turned to her maid for comfort, not her husband.

“I went up to change the fake coronet for the real one”, she said, wiping her eyes. “I entered the room, and there was this.... figure at the window. I could only see an outline, but he was holding something.... it must have been the real coronet. He threw it over the balcony and turned and saw me. He had a knife- I saw it gleam in the light from outside - so I took out my revolver and.... and.....”

She juddered to a halt. 

“We found boot marks in the mud near the wall at the back of your garden”, the sergeant said, “and a fallen brick where it looked as if someone had cleared the wall. So two men, and the second one got away with the real coronet.” He stared warily at Lord Moreton-Coles. “Which, I am led to understand, you just had insured?”

“I did”, the lord said testily. “What are you implying, sergeant?”

“Just getting all the facts, sir.” Henriksen had long perfected the sort of blank and utterly vacuous look that made the average cow look as if it was over-concentrating. “I am sorry that it was your valet who got shot.”

Lord Moreton-Coles sniffed.

“I always knew he was a bad lot!” his wife almost hissed. “He would have got away with it if I had not gone back to my room just then.”

Henriksen nodded, and ushered myself and Sherlock from the room. He led us to the billiard-room, where he leant against one of the tables.

“If only she had got there ten seconds earlier, we might still have the bauble”, the sergeant said. “Now that fellow's confederate has gotten away with it!”

Sherlock smiled.

“May we go to where the shooting happened?” he asked.

“What do you expect to see there?” the sergeant asked, although he led the way out of the room and over to the stairs. “Whatever it is, I hope it's quick. I have a room full of the great and the good down there who are getting their feathers ruffled about not being allowed to leave. And they are not the sort of people that someone in my position can afford to upset!”

My friend just shook his head. We made it to Lady Moreton-Coles' room, and once inside, he immediately began searching around the dressing-table.

“The body was over by the window, sir”, Henriksen pointed out, clearly puzzled by his actions. 

Sherlock looked hard at him, then pulled back one of the rugs and pointed. There was a small but notable blood-stain on the wooden floor.

“I would wager”, he said quietly, “that that is from the victim, Macbeth. Probably from the shot that killed him.”

“But that is at least three yards from the window”, I pointed out. “And if he had been bleeding, then he surely would have left a mark on the way as he dragged himself over to the window?”

“Exactly”, Sherlock said. He sat down in the large chair by the bed and pressed his fingers together in thought.

“This was an excellently planned crime”, he said. “One highly able criminal mind, and one unwitting scapegoat who took the fall.”

“The thief got away”, Henriksen pointed out. To my surprise, Sherlock laughed.

“When you saw those footprints, Henriksen, what did you notice?” he asked. 

“They were deep”, the sergeant said. “And wet.”

“Precisely.”

The sergeant looked as confused as I felt. Sherlock sighed.

“Not the footprints, but the space between them”, he said. “They were very evidently made by someone walking, as they were evenly spaced and the pressure applied to each step was as one might expect from a walking man. But a running man – and we are invited to imagine that the thief ran for the wall to effect his escape - applies pressure forwards, and his prints would be both farther apart and more irregularly spaced.”

I gasped.

“They were fakes!” I said. “A false trail.”

“Indeed”, he said, smiling at me. “Someone wished to create the impression that a second man took the coronet. And there was also the loose brick in the wall, yet there is a perfectly serviceable and unlocked gate within sight a little further along. I checked before we arrived.”

I had wondered why Sherlock had had the cab-driver drop us off at the back of the house and then walked round.

“But Lady Moreton-Coles told us that Macbeth was calling down to someone, and passed him the coronet”, I objected.

He looked at me, clearly willing me to get it. 

“She was lying”, I said. “But why?”

Sherlock sat back again.

“We know that Lady Moreton-Coles married her husband against the advice of her family”, he said. “That advice, though resented, turned out to be quite accurate. Denzil Moreton-Coles was a poor husband, and she quickly tired of him. But even with all the paperwork and law on her side, she knew her family would most likely elect to pay him off, if only to avoid the publicity. Unless, that is, he was suspected of a crime and there was publicity anyway, in which case they would fight it in court.”

“She plans it well. When her husband's old valet retires, she ensures that her accomplice, the hapless Mr. Macbeth, is employed as his replacement, primarily by objecting to any rival candidates. She then very publicly makes it clear that she does not like or trust him, so that no-one can suspect their partnership. I am afraid that she may even have hinted to him that, after the divorce, there might be the prospect of her marrying him. It was her intention all along, however, that her confederate should die in a faked theft of the beryl coronet.”

“Faked?” I ventured. “But it was stolen!”

“No”, he said. “The replacement was stolen. The real one, which she now has on, plays no direct part in the crime, so the police will not wish to look at it. Which, sergeant, is where you will find the evidence against her, or at least part of it. I would suggest that you inform her you need to borrow it for a sketch 'for the records' then get a jeweller to examine it. He will vouch that it is real enough, and I think she will find that at least hard to explain.”

He sighed, before continuing.

“She has arranged that Macbeth will make the theft at a certain time. She times it well, going to her room just before, and finding him waiting for her to hand it over. Instead, she shoots him – by the dressing-table where the coronet was kept, remember, not the window – then drags his body out and throws it over the balcony. You will remember that we had to break down a locked door, even though she had only gone in to seemingly change her coronet.”

“She looks strong enough to haul a man like Macbeth around”, Henriksen conceded. 

“I dare say that if you look hard enough, you will find the boots that Macbeth used to make the fake prints”, Sherlock said. “Lady Moreton-Coles may also find it hard to explain why her husband's valet was shot in one place, and then somehow staggered over, opened a window and threw himself off of a balcony. Though I suspect that your real problems will lie further down the line.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Macbeth is dead”, he said. “She is alive, and doubtless a smart lawyer will make sure that as much blame as possible is pinned on the evil, conniving valet rather than the poor, defenceless lady in the case, who was obviously so grievously misled and cruelly taken advantage of. I doubt that you will get a murder conviction, sergeant.”

+~+~+

Sherlock turned out to be mostly right. When the case did reach court, the first jury hearing it refused to convict on murder, claiming that there was enough doubt as to the lady's full complicity to stop them sending her to the gallows. A second hearing, over a year later, saw her sentenced to jail for most of the rest of her life, but she still did not pay the ultimate price for murder. Her wealth passed to the husband that she had wanted to dispose of, and he offered to pay Sherlock's bill, only for my friend to waive it in favour of the late Macbeth's family, a brother and a sister whom the valet had been helping to support, and who were totally innocent in the matter. That was so typical of the man.

+~+~+

In our next adventure together – the 'real' second stain case - I would inadvertently discover that my friend's generosity extended even further.


End file.
